A Better Place
by LittleRedBee
Summary: "It's calling me Home, I have to go now." Those words chill the Batman to his bones. Wally doesn't remember why he'd said it, or what he saw. Bruce alone knows the truth.
1. Prologue

"Freeze, Cold!"

The parker-wearing villain had snapped out of his seat and stood fingering at the tips of his cold-guns.

Angry shouts and the violent sound of pint glasses being knocked over and bottles smashing on the floor filled the room to bursting as the lower echelon thugs and crooks of Central City barreled out of the tavern's fire escape, as if the pressure of The Flash entering the establishment had physically expelled them from the premises. Barry didn't bother to stop them.

Cold and the rogues remained firmly in place.

The snarl on Len's face was echoed by the aggressive stances of Captain Boomerang and Mirror Master. Trickster (who Len had noticed had been strangely forlorn since yesterday) sank only further into the booth the rogues occupied, while Piper looked on with a sort of vague interest, his fingers nevertheless inching towards his silver flute.

"That goes for the rest of you too" The Flash added, apparently not missing the tiny gesture as the white lenses of his cowl began narrowing.

"You've got 5 seconds to haul your ass out of here" Cold growled with menace.

The Flash barging into Harry's wasn't completely unheard of, but was rare; usually a last resort for the 'hero' when desperate for information and enraged enough to go head hunting for it. As such, his presence usually preceded a particularly vicious smack-down…

Though it did nothing to quell the rogue's hostility, The Flash raised his hands as if in surrender (though then again, it wasn't usually The Flash's hands that presented the major problem).

"I'm – " He faltered curiously, the scarlet speedsters shoulders slumping the smallest fraction as a little bit of strength seemed to leech out of his body. "I'm not here to bust you."

"How nice" Cold's eyes thinned to slits at the unfamiliar situation.

"I'm here on behalf of the Kid" he continued, a trite more unsure than normal. His words immediately galvanized the Trickster into an abrupt angry outburst, an unusual amount of venom spiking his voice:

"Which one! Baby Flash or Fakey Baby Flash!?"

Barry cringed behind his cowl.

He and Bart had tangled with the Trickster yesterday; it had been his grandson's first day as… Well, even The Trickster off his meds could recognize the difference between a stranger and his friend in Kid Flash's morosely sunny uniform. The surprise caused him to drop the loot from the store he'd been knocking over, the accusation in his following words - the betrayal in them – stopped Barry dead in his tracks and let James get away.

"That's not Kid Flash! What did you do with Baby Flash!?"

Bart had cried the whole way home.

_'Fakey Baby Flash'_

Was that how Wally had seen it when Bart had made his grand appearance? Barry hadn't even thought about it back then; hadn't seen it that way. What if Wally had? Had he felt blood was thicker than water? He retreated from their lives around that time; they had thought to be with Artemis… but perhaps it was to avoid watching his place at Barry's side be filled by a younger, faster, blood-related replacement. Barry scolded himself. He should that thought of this before. Should have talked to him about it. Should have told him Wally was as much a son to him as his soon-to-be twins. Now he'd never get the chance.

"He's Kid Flash now, James" Barry murmured.

It wasn't Bart's fault after all.

The Flash was distracted, and battling speedsters for a living had made the rogues nothing if not opportunists. Captain Boomerang had managed to slip one of his weapons of choice into his hand, shooting Cold a meaningful look from the corners of his eyes; which Len answered with a frosty glare of his own. Not yet.

Flash was too preoccupied by his own thoughts to notice.

"The hells this about, Flash?" Len demanded shortly, knowing full well eventually Boomerang would throw his namesake if Len liked it or not.

The Flash seemed to abruptly steal himself, his posture hardening as he checked back in. It was now or never and he cleared his throat of the building roughness.

"4 days ago, Kid Flash –" His voice cracked "_Your_ Kid Flash- " He made sure to emphasize for James, clarity was important as he only wanted to say this once

" He… died… saving the world."

A pause.

A few droplets of spilt beer splashing onto the floor,

A deafening silence, as if waiting for a punch-line that wouldn't never come…

Then finally,

A gasp from Piper (Barry guessed),

An appropriately-accented "Bloody Hell" from Captain Boomerang.

A snapping "What!?" from Mirror Master.

Cold remained frigid as ever.

A long speedsters moment elapsed in eerier silence from Trickster before he suddenly began to wail loudly like a child.

Barry didn't think this was a good idea; but Wally hadn't shared his own no-nonsense policy towards the rogues, and would certainly want to return the favor if the tables where reversed. Barry wanted to be selfish, but as Iris had told him "an eye for an eye makes the world blind, Barry. They need to know, just like everyone else"

"Personally, I don't like the idea of this – " His voice wavered uncontrollably " but it's what he'd want, so your invited to attend the service next Sunday" A sudden aggression blazed though The Flash's frame like fire, his muscles literally sparking in warning " And if any of you even think of doing anything to interrupt it – "

"We get it" Cold growled

"I don't like you _" Barry continued, charging forward like a bull, fierceness coloring his voice as red as his suit "But W- Kid did, so the League's extending temporary amnesty during the service for any of you that want to attend."

The whirlwind of emotion was now easily recognizable as grief, and tricks really weren't the speedster's strong points. This was the real deal. Not some sick trap. Len almost wished it had been.

"That's it."

Cold nodded curtly, acknowledging the message received and in a fluster of red wind the Flash was gone again, leaving only the tavern door to flap squeakily buffeted by his wake.

Digger slumped bonelessly back into his seat while Hartley moved to unsuccessfully console James. "The look on Flasher's face" someone muttered too quietly to be identified, another responding with a guttural grunt of agreement.

It wasn't a grand display of emotion by any means, or even the gruff acknowledgment of a worthy adversary downed like The Flash might have gotten. For the most part, Len coolly observed a sort of stunned reticence, disbelief that someone as bright, as vibrant as the shock of freakishly red hair on his head could have been snuffed out so young.

"Calm down, James" Len consigned himself to barking, The Tricksters unabashed weeping interspersed with wails of who'd play darts with him in hospital now seeming endless even in the face of Piper's valiant struggle.

He wasn't a religious man. It would be a cold day in hell before he offered up a prayer or repented some invisible rap sheet of sins, but James needed to hear it and maybe on some small level so did the rest of them.

"He's in a better place."

* * *

AN:

The prologue is set in the Young Justice universe for anyone who's confused, but the rest will be set in the JLU cartoon-verse prior to the start of the series. You don't need to have seen or liked Young Justice to enjoy this hopefully. The rogue's bar is named after the wonderful Rogue fic "Everybody Comes to Harry's" so may not be the name of the place in cannon.


	2. White Hole

The Batwing sliced through the dark night air like a knife. A ripple of starless black against the constellation-adorned sky. The Batman was on the hunt. Not a man-hunt or anything so grand or bold, but a hunt to satisfy his curiosity. When something arose that the Batman had no experience of it demanded study, dissection, understanding, and most importantly: counter-acting.

Across the globe a pattern of strange energy readings have been reported, spawning from nothing with seemingly no reason and ceasing just as rapidly.

His own satellites have managed to obtain a few images of a rounded oval-like 'white hole' (as Robin has come to nickname it); spewing blinding light, intense winds and blizzards from it's mouth like ash from a volcano. Energy-readings imply that it's very first appearance in Antarctica had gone totally unnoticed; no doubt a white window hemorrhaging flurries of snow being well disguised amongst the region's natural weather and tundra.

When it made it's second appearance deep in Missouri - in the middle of summer - it did not escaped as unnoticed.

The location seemed utterly random, sharing nothing in common with it's Antarctic origin. 'Central' City the place is named. A backwater collection of broken sidewalks and low-class eateries that have managed to sprawl far enough across the landscape to be recognized as a 'city'. It boasts nothing to the world around it except for it's rising population of meta-human thieves, no doubt attracted to the easy score with it's lacking security systems and crumbling financial infrastructure.

Yet here, amongst streets dank enough to rival Gotham's own had the energy returned, blazing into existence in the middle of Central's busiest high-street and blasting gale-force winds and snow around the sleepy city. The uplift from the winds sendt civilians flying and cars slamming into each other in confusion; creating a concatenation of screams and blaring car horns before evaporating into thin air. It left behind only the snow on the sidewalk - rapidly melting into slush in the summer heat - to prove the incident had ever occurred.

From the police reports, insurance claims and youtube videos taken at the time, Batman has cautiously scrubbed through enough footage to rest assured that this 'white hole' needs to be dealt with. The chaos it created in it's mere minutes of existence warrant it's termination.

Batman's best situational estimates included renegade magic and a haphazard attempt by some far-flung alien race at first contact.

The less conservative population of Central and its sister-city Keystone are raving across the internet everything from the miss-trial of a new government weapon to divine proof of the upcoming end of the world.

Robin had cackled as he read the article; the notion of the upcoming apocalypse entertaining his 13 year old, but little else.

Personally Bruce hopes the thing hits Metropolis next. The last thing Gotham needs is more unexplained anomalies to shake the delicate sanity of those that choose to dwell here.

The next place the White Hole opens is downtown Gotham.

Mindful of the powerful winds recorded at the Central City incident-site, the Batwing descends with the ease of a harrier jet; touching down a small distance from the abandoned warehouse district where once more a blizzard blusters like a tornado.

The place was fortunately and understandably deserted. A glance to the instruments within the craft's cockpit report a dramatic drop in the wind-speeds present here, concurrent with the speed it had lost between the Antarctic and Missouri appearances.

Whatever it is, it's loosing energy, and at the rate of doing so possibly will not be making any other appearances after this one as Robin reports over the com, apparently pleased that for once the problem is poised to fade away of it's own volition; a rare event in their experience.

The air crackles with something akin to electricity, the deafening thrum of raw energy snapping at the sky and ground.

The wind proves strong enough to lift the heavy obsidian cape from Batman's shoulders and playfully toss it around, but too weak to lift the weight of the Dark Knight himself.

The Batman stalks forwards slowly until he's arrived at the White Hole's mouth; a bastion of calm against it's roaring storm. The light-weight computer built into his gauntlet begins taking any readings up close that his satellites can't; probing the shining void for electromagnetic, radioactive, seismic and atmospheric readings; the results are fed into the Bat computer manned by Robin back at the cave.

Abruptly, it shifts; the ever-present hum howling as if in agony in one last blaze of energy. The wind begins to die all around it, suffocating itself.

The blizzard eases from hail to sleet and slowly exhausts itself all together. His gauntlet confirms air pressure and atmospheric readings returning to normal, the crackling buzz of energy that had been beating through the cowl and into his eardrums fading away as the White Hole shrinks in front of him, consuming itself as it grows ever smaller. It's blazing white lightning recedes into a pale glow.

"Batman! Theres an energy spike building at the event horizon! I think it's gonna' explode" Robins voice hurriedly interrupts.

"Understood."

Batman hates a mystery unsolved… but some things are simply destined to remain unknown… for now. Gotham's knight turns his back to the curiosity and runs with the strength and speed of an Olympic athlete; the Batwing's canopy sliding open ready to receive him at the touch of a button as he nears.

"Its going critical! Bru-"

The light explodes.

It rings in his ears, his dark cape quickly pulled over his head to shield his eyes and body from the blinding flash and immense heat. The energy in the air stings, leaping over him like a wave. The sky turns white, pebbles of loose concrete beneath his feet roll abruptly into the distance as the Batman is forced to brace himself against the rippling punch of the wind.

"-CE"

The ringing in his ears begins to quiet.

"-AT-N!"

"BRU-"

"BRUCE!"

"I'm here" He replies into his com, Robin's genuine worry temporarily saving him from the 'no names, even over secure channels' lecture he will be receiving in the not too distant future.

"Oh man." Robin breathes on the other end of the line. "Th-The spike was increasing slowly and then suddenly it just - Spiked! It wasn't normal!"

It certainly wasn't normal as explosions go, Bruce could attest to that.

Pulling his cape back from its position as a protective shroud, he stares back to where the crater should be. Where the White Hole had been. Dust and rubble have been blasted away from it leaving a ring of debris in it's wake, but no damage had been made to the surrounding buildings.

Abruptly Batman snatches at his utility belt, drawing a Batarang poised and ready.

Trailing away from the site in his direction are two deep trenches cut through concrete and earth alike to rip apart the ground. They resemble the tracks of a train, or the skid-marks of a car, or the claws of a beast.

His gaze follows the marks to within a foot of his body, where they veer wildly in a wide arc before haphazardly resuming, running straight towards… or rather, straight into...

The Batwing...

Newly damaged with a dent Bruce doubted even Alfred's near compulsive buffing will be able to get out.

The metal used in the Batwing's construction is the finest military grade that exists. Triple reinforced, it can withstand pressures mightier than submarines. To see it caved in questions what sort of force is capable of warping it so. It would seem however that the Wing's assailant has not escaped unscathed.

Coating the impact sight is a liberal and glossy coating of thick red blood.

There, lying sprawled on the ground before the craft is a distinctly bipedal mass, and from the water-melon sized dent in the Batwing's hull it can be assumed the mass won't be making any moves any time soon.

"Robin, activate the optical link to my cowl and prepare the Cave to render medical aid."

It lies on it's side, shivering wildly with it's back and shock of dirty red hair facing him. Surging forward the Batman looms over the downed quarry. It's curled up on itself almost fetal until a gentle but firm tug on it's shoulder makes it uncurl bonelessly, flopping onto it's back limply like a trembling corpse.

He groans.

It's a man, but a young one.

Only a few years beyond Robins age.

Thin and gaunt, the skin pulled tightly over his ribs rises and falls in desperate stuttering gasps. One glazed green eye stares up at him unseeingly and chapped blue lips twitch in the beginnings of some delirious unknown word before both fall suddenly shut, the strain proving too much.

A rudy pool is growing swiftly beneath his head.

Not first contact then.

_Small mercies. He'd leave the 'welcome to earth' pleasantries to Clark._

His skull is cracked open and thick dark blood spills messily down his forehead to dribble down his long straight nose, dodging doggedly between a series of barely-visible faded freckles.

His breath staggers out in shallow unsteady pants.

The Batman presses his fingers to his carotid artery, feeling a fast thready pulse beat tiredly beneath the young man's ragingly hot flesh. Despite the feverish temperature of his skin, his lips, nipples, toes and fingers are tinted blue with cold.

Aside from the obviously newly sustained injury to his skull there is evidence of previous trauma: enormous gashes across his uniform. The lenses from the goggles that frame his eyes are ruined, one missing in it's entirety, the other cracked beyond repair. The glass appears to have splintered inwards.

Male. Unknown meta-human, somewhere between 17 and 21. Broken skull, likely surrounding fractures, hypovolemic shock on-setting, erratic pulse: risk of cardiac arrest. Frost-bite in extremities. Possibility of glass lodged in his right eye.

The near mechanical analysis of his condition does not bode well.

He's wearing the remains of some form of suit. No superhero or villain affiliation currently known, but from a well structured guess judging from the surviving yellow and red color scheme and notable sweat and heat radiating from the body he'd guesses a Fire-meta of some description.

Not enough of the costume remains on his person to be called any form of clothing, the material appears to have melted away under the soles of his feet, knees, elbows, knuckles, beneath his armpits and across the inside of his thighs and groin, leaving only tattered scraps to cling desperately to his wrists, hips, neck and ankles.

The age suggests this is little more than another young meta-human's powers outgrowing their ability to control as they began to reach maturation. An unfortunate but not altogether uncommon event as the world's meta-human population continues to steadily increase.

A normal human (meta or not) the Batman would have left to the medical care of Gotham's hospitals, but a meta with still unknown powers on this scale is too dangerous, to both the meta himself and the public…

As it would happen, Gotham enjoys the presence of uninitiated meta's in it's city limits about as much as the Batman himself does. Which was to say, not at all. Meta-humans in Gotham have an unfortunate habit of either turning to life of crime, or turning up dead.

Covering the exposed body with the comforting weight of his cape, Bruce hooked his arms around the trembling young man's back and the crook of his knees, hoisting him into the cockpit of the Batwing and depositing him as gently as Batman is able to. His charge squeaks out a sort of soft pained whimper.

He moans and tries weakly to pull away as Batman fixes a temporary bandage around his head, the skull beneath his fingers shifting slightly, feeling unnaturally unstable.

"Agent A here, sir" Comes a brisk prim voice over the Batwing's radio as it's engines roar to life with the ferocious snarl of jet turbines. "The medical enclosure is prepped and ready to receive you. What is status of the patient?"

"The Optical cowl link has been recording."

_See for yourself._

The line is silent as Alfred reviews the footage.

"Oh my" the butler mutters to himself "Poor lad."

* * *

AN:

Yep, so it's another pan dimensional YJ/JLU fix-it fic. I know this chapter's written a bit differently to the first. It's suposed to feel like looking back on a Bat mission report. Mainly to hide the fact I have no idea how to write Batman or Robin. I'm trying to breeze through this fic quite quickly. Theres another Wally fic I'm debating writing but it needs this one to set the background. I can't really recall Young Justice that well so if anything from it in this fic isn't right just ignore it.


	3. John Doe

The Batcave's medical facilities are the best money can buy. Literally. Vying for superiority with the greatest hospitals and laboratories in the world.

Between them, Bruce and Alfred have enough medical expertise to perform anything from filling a tooth to brain surgery.

It's only the combination of these two factors that just manages to save his life.

The impact of the blow to the boy's head has caused the rapid onset of cerebral edema, his brain swelling and inter-cranial pressures escalating within minutes of having him in the cave to the point at which their removing the back of his skull for fear of risking even further brain damage; his thick coarse blaze of hair shaved off with a soft tsk from the butler.

Some sort of mild meta-human healing factor seems to be at work, but it's weak and unreliable, barely managing to help at all.

Glass is indeed present in his eye and has to be gently removed by Alfred as Bruce examines the IV for leaks: none are present. Anything fed into the boy's body intravenously lasts only a fraction of the time it would take a normal human body to metabolize.

They work throughout the night healing as best they can, bandaging what they cant, collecting samples and eventually stabilizing the strange case. Bruce insists Alfred take periodic breaks and Alfred in return supplies periodic cups of coffee.

In the early hours of the morning the swelling of the boy's brain has receded enough to begin piecing his skull back together around it, frighteningly like a jigsaw puzzle. As they've worked Bruce has noticed the boy's physical condition deteriorating at a rate their eyes can perceive. Boney limbs become skeletal, only further aided in their grim visage by the man's newly shaven head.

They swamp him in bandages from his crown to his eyes and come dawn there's nothing more they can do but wait. Alfred retires for a few hours of rest before waking Dick for school. Bruce sits before the Bat computer and complies the results of his tests.

They are not pleasing.

The DNA sourced from his hair matches no known person living or dead, nor does that of the female DNA extracted from the vaginal secretions swabbed from his genitalia. His fingerprints yield no known matches in any database across the globe and the final hairs extracted from the under soles of what were once his socks prove to be canine. Just some random mongrel with no pedigree or breeders to be traced back to.

12 hours since he impaled himself on the Batwing, 3 since he's been out of surgery and yet no information of any kind can be drudged from him or what remains of his unusual effects.

The exact nature of his meta-human mutation proves easier to decode. Genetically speaking Bruce has never seen anything like it, but every physical trait has been altered for one thing and one thing only.

An enlarged heart. Extra lubrication and elasticity in his joints, ligaments and tendons. Micro fractures in his heels and ankles. Abnormally narrow hips coupled with almost disproportionately long legs and toes. What remains of a classic runners musculature, though much of the muscle mass has been lost. Without a doubt, like a Greyhound in comparison to a Labrador, the man is a human re-built for pure speed.

He'll need to see him awake to confirm his theories and procure an ID. That seems a long way off though, and the need to rest grows ever more pressing even for the Batman.

Dick's home hours later after an arduous day at school; throwing away his civilian identity along with his uniform onto the bed and donning Robin. Soundlessly he descends into the cave, finding himself it's only occupant. Bruce has apparently ventured upstairs to rest now Alfred has recovered enough to take over watching their patient. The butler is busy in the kitchen making dinner.

There are quite a few things Robin would like to do finding himself temporarily unsupervised within the cave, mainly use it's many distractions to avoid doing his homework until Alfred deems it appropriate to find him and set him to task. Then there's always that killer new ring routine he's been perfecting that even Bruce worries is possibly edging towards being too dangerous for an adult legally responsible for a child to allow.

But both these things are old news, and currently the newest occupant to be added to the cave's collection of oddities is a far more tantalizing curiosity. Bruce's profile of him remains without an identity; something that doesn't often happen with the Bat computer's extensive reach across the information networks of the world at Bruce's fingertips.

Flicking through the clipboard of medical notes hung on the wall of the enclosure Robin confirms his suspicions that Bruce has doused the guy in enough sedatives to keep a moose out for a night or two and has no hesitation slipping into the enclosure for a first hand look. As they said at the various sideshows of Haly's Circus, 'seeing is believing' and Dick's young eyes have been trained since birth to seek out spectacle. A trait only emphasized by his time as Robin, partner to the world's greatest detective.

The room is airtight, hermetically sealed. All four walls are made of darkened one-way glass for observation purposes and a cot stationed central to the room sits surrounded by banks of medical and monitoring equipment.

Bruce will know he's been in here of course from the security footage; Alfred probably knows he's in here right now knowing the butler's odd form of domestic clairvoyance. Bruce will also be able to see him checking the room's sensors for extraneous radiation, pathogens or contaminants before entering on the surveillance tapes so the scolding he'll receive will be mild and thusly an acceptable sacrifice for a chance of a better look at the weird meta.

His head's almost totally covered in wrappings, as if he's been half mummified from the top down. Wires feed down to the electrodes scattered across his bare rid-lined chest while an IV sits uncomfortably buried into his arm. He's apparently cold; his skin peppered with goose flesh despite several of the monitors suggesting his temperature is several degrees above the norm. Both eyes are sunken rings of red and charcoal set against his paper-thin face. One eye has a thick cottony medical patch over it. The other blinks blearily.

Blinks?

Crud. Wouldn't you know the guy chooses right then to wake up. Now Bruce really will scold him, entering the room with a conscious meta before a full threat assessment has been profiled.

Robin ducks down quickly to crouch beside the cot. Having been stood at the right side of the bed and thusly obscured from the meta's vision by the bandage over his eye Dick is pretty sure he hasn't been spotted and intends to keep it that way. So much for the lasting power of moose tranquilizers.

The guy does little but groan and breath deeply for the first minutes, trying to acclimatize to the waking pain of his injures Dick supposes. From his vantage point sat below the bedside Robin fugitively observes the patient via his reflection in the dark glass of the windows. The man is too groggy to do the same and so Dick is confident he will remain undetected and has the Kevlar of his uniform to protect him incase things turn hostile.

Slowly, the guy seems to become more alert to his surroundings, systematically twitching his fingers and toes; the next sounds recognizable and distinct. The light snapping of leather against skin echoes around the infirmary-in-a-box as he weakly tests his strength against the restraints on his wrists and ankles. He blinks stupidly, seemingly unable to equate the sensation of the material against his skin with anything beyond a strange feeling before the realization of restraints seems to kick in and he begins to struggle against them more concertedly.

Robin watches animal panic set in as he thrashes – or more appropriately: flounders – against the bindings with strangely jolting movements. What once resembled a heartbeat on the appropriate monitor quickly goes ballistic in the midst of his freak-out, soon better resembling a dubstep baseline beyond anything else.

The patient is wide-eyed, trembling and frightful. The cotton sheets below him quietly shift and crunch as he wriggles his body hopelessly and whimpers a soft smothered sound. His eyes search the room frantically, flickering across it as the machines watching his vitals all begin to squeal in alarm as if matching his distress.

Despite the wild symphony of noises and his own obvious confusion it seems he can no longer stand his own isolation as he swallows thickly, attempting (and failing) to school his gaunt features into something that doesn't resemble abject horror.

"H-hello?" He stutters with a slur before going deathly still waiting for a reply as if trying to listen for a far off echo. His lip quivers when he gets none. "Hello!?" he tries a little louder, his voice rasping from the effort of making his hoarse throat co-operate.

"Were am I?"

"I'no you're there…. P-Please?"

Robin inwardly curses, he must have gotten a glance at him after all.

The silence only upsets the meta more so and he makes an effort to curl up on himself that's promptly thwarted by the restraints.

"So'like, I totally need to pee n'I get the impressun' sheets'are esspensive'?"

It's a poor bid for freedom, so much Robin stifles a snort. He knows what Bruce would say, 'never give away your position to a hostile force', but if that's the best shot the guy's got he doubts their dealing with someone of super-villain inclinations… or intelligence. Even the meta himself didn't seem to think it would work.

He doesn't seem surprised by the lack of an answer, staring brokenly downwards.

Robin prepares to unveil himself; this guy's got a good run at the 'most pathetic looking person in the world' award and he can't take it anymore. He moves to stand, and as he does so the familiar werring sound of the infirmary door's hydraulics sound with a hiss of pressurized air, startling the meta to jump as much as he can while still bound bodily to the bed and utterly missing as Robin reveals himself to stare dumb-founded as the black cape of the Batman sweeps in to fill the small enclosure.

The meta stares at Bruce with a cocktail of curious awe and blank confusion before a wide grin instinctively curled across his face, unpleasantly accentuating all of it's deep hollows and sharp angles.

This is not the usual response the Batman receives and Bruce stares him down. Smiles that wide make him suspicious and put him on edge – and in this city they have every right to. Despite this he notes there's no maliciousness… or recognition in his bright green eye.

"Hey" The boy slurs out, apparently less phased by the Batman's appearance than he is desperate for some sort of human connection. "Where m'I?"

Bruce watches, assessing before deciding he wants Dick out of this room… just in case. The meta seems harmless now, but the nature of meta human mutations makes this rarely if ever the case.

"Robin?" He calls, rich voice seeming to shake the air.

"Er. Yeah?" answers a voice unsurely. It's not Dicks voice.

"He's talking to me" Chirp's Dick from the meta's beside, causing him to flinch in surprise at the presence of the boy he's only just noticed.

"Your name's Robin?" the boy wonder questions, vaguely amused. The guy looks shocked, then sheepish.

"Ah. No sorry. Thought he was talkn' t'me."

Dick stares at him blankly, and the expression is returned in full before the meta's eyes slip right and his brow furrows.

"Could be Robin... I guess…. Wait snt' Robin a girls name?"

Dick face-palms as Bruce observes with clinical intensity how the crease between the patient's eyebrows seems to deepen; the genuine confusion on his face creeping into fear. Water pricks his eyes.

"What do you last remember?" Batman prompts, already knowing the answer.

A set of tear's escape with a disbelieving blink, terror overtaking his features as he stares at Batman in blank horror, as if its only just occurred to him to be afraid of a man dressed as a large black bat. But Bruce knows it isn't him he fears.

"…N-nothing. Can't remember anything"

* * *

AN:

Cliche, I know. The main reasoning being that I wanted to join the continuity of the YJ and JLU Wally's but on rewatching the first episodes of JL couldn't help but notice Flash gets the tar beaten out of him... like a lot. He seems to spend more time running into things and knocking himself out than he does on his feet.

Don't get me wrong, I've read and loved the fics that do the whole 'He's pretending to be stupid but he's really secretly smart Wally from YJ' thing, but you just can't fake how badly he runs himself into things in the start of the series. In 'Only a Dream' he gets cornered by a guy whos only power is to duplicate himself and beaten around like a wet sock. If he'd grown up fighting Mirror Master's doubles I just dont think... well, anyway. Whatever makes a good story.

On that note I have no medical knowledge so please don't roast me alive if it's wrong.

Anyhow, please review. More to come soon.


	4. Wally West

With CAT scans the brain damage is confirmed. Bruce had suspected it from the ever-present slur in the boy's words; how some seem to merge into each other while others go entirely wanting. Batman explains to the dazed young man that if the trauma is the cause of his amnesia it's unlikely his memories will ever fully return. He's understandably upset. Currently he sits in shock, staring at Bruce blankly. That's what he is. Blank.

The only lead left on the man's identity is a dead end. He matches no filed missing persons reports and yet is very much a person missing. Alfred makes an attempt to feed him a light broth. He's dressed in surgical scrubs and a surgeon's mask to protect his identity, and a kevlar apron to protect his body. While the patient looks at the meal longingly he seems unable to stomach the concoction. Afterwards the meta spends the remainder of the day in troubled sleep.

He needs a lot of food, but for the most part is too stressed or pained from his injuries to both eat and keep the food down, particularly when alone. He throws up from pure distress whenever he's left too long on his own, retching even when he has only bile and water to regurgitate.

Alfred does not approve of Bruce's intention to study his powers, fix him up ready for travel, and turf him out, but Bruce is firm – the Batcave is capable of healing many physical wounds but rehabilitating brain damage is not one of them. While he seems more or less coherent, there's special doctors and clinics more adapt at dealing with such issues where the patient can get the psychological and speech therapy he's going to need. The one fortunate enough to receive him as a patient has a large Wayne Enterprises grant in it's future for it's discretion.

Still, such things are a way down the line until they can get the man well enough to cope with such plans.

He glances wayward towards the enclosure. Robin has taken to spending time with the patient.

Although originally out of guilt for sneaking on him it would seem he actually has come to enjoy his company in the patient's limited waking hours over the last two days. The meta seems chirpy enough between the bouts of pain and depression and despite being unable to remember anything of a vaguely personal nature seems to have a fairly average range of knowledge on subjects common to a lower-middle or working class upbringing for a man his age. The microphone tuned into the conversation within the enclosure currently informs him their discussing films. His facts are a little off as he seems absolutely adamant that Nicolas Cage and Sean Connery played Aragorn and Gandalf respectively in Lord of the Rings, but he has the rest of the cast right. Possibly some disassociation of names to faces may be involved.

Dick for the most part seems to find these quirks funny and enjoys teasing him. While the meta is largely docile and friendly, he apparently has a stubborn streak Bruce suspects might manifest itself as somewhat of a temper were the patient in better condition. Yet he seems to enjoy making Dick laugh (most likely for selfish reasons, ensuring he is perceived as an amusement to encourage ongoing visits) which has been difficult to do since his protégée waded into his teen years.

Alfred - the patient calls him 'doc' for lack of a more appropriate title - has also taken a liking to him, though he hides it well.

Bruce himself has spent most of his time chasing anything that seems even remotely feasible, scavenging the storm-sites and retracing energy patterns. There are no leads to be found, yet he continues to search even though it may be aggravatingly futile. Despite shaping up to be quite the 'chatterbox' (as Alfred says), the young man is certainly decent enough to have a family waiting for his return. Bruce would much prefer such a reunion over sending him into care.

In an effort to shake something loose, the Batman has prepared a little show and tell for him today. Robin's conversation with him - attempting to convince him despite his insistence otherwise that there is no such thing as Pokemon X or Y – is of no major importance and so he chooses now to conduct his experiment.

He strides purposefully as always into the room.

"- if there was I'd totally own one by now-"

"Heya Bats!"

Batman scowls at him as he grins back, the invented nickname apparently already solidified in his mind as of yesterday. Bruce does not care for it. Robin grins at this knowingly.

"Great timing, I need a break" He chirps.

The meta's face falls and adopts the most ridiculous puppy-eyed pout Bruce has ever seen on a man nearly (if not already) 20, which Robin laughs at openly before adding "Not from you, to pee. Dofus." So easily the man's grin returns.

"Kay, see you later?" he asks, suddenly sheepish. His own inability to cope with even temporary isolation is a deep source of embarrassment apparently.

"Of course" Robin replies easily with a roll of his eyes and a smirk before escaping out the door behind Bruce.

The meta watches him leave. After a pause a single large green eye switches back to fall on Batman. He mutters "Still nuthin'" in a tight apologetic voice, joy falling off his face as his gaze sinks downwards into the purest look of dejection Bruce has ever seen.

"Some things to try" Bruce finds himself growling back, trying to sound at least a little comforting and failing; the meta seems to appreciate the effort though and shoots him a shaky smile.

The first item is a photograph; one taken of the street in Central City the storm materialized in shortly before said incident occurred. Given what remains of the mild accent beneath the slur that has nearly overpowered it, it was likely Central was originally his home or place of significance. Despite his hopes, no households had reported the absence of their red haired, green eyed brother/nephew/son.

The patient stared at the photograph curiously before turning his blank eye back on Bruce's own.

"S'a street."

"Yes."

"...Okay?"

"No significance?"

"Erm..."

He glanced back over the photograph one last time before shaking his head, wincing in pain at the motion of doing so.

The next item Bruce placed before him was a small red cup with an elegantly crafted zig-zag erupting out of it. He'd been wearing two of them when he was found but Bruce doubted he'd remember that if slamming into the Batwing caused the brain damage fuelling his amnesia.

The young man clasped the surprisingly complex piece of tech in his hand, running his thumb over the sharp angles of the feather-like detailing on the side and turning it around in his palm as best he could while still strapped to a hospital bed. It wasn't abnormal for meta abilities to enter a sort of self-defensive hibernation after a large trauma, and as they had yet to truly reassert themselves Bruce allowed the cuffs off only for him to use to rest room, eat or be sick.

Ultimately he frowned.

"I have nooooo idea what this is."

Collecting it back Bruce placed the final item in the waiting hand and watched the abrupt shift of emotions as he did so. The second he laid eyes upon the frames of the empty red goggles they turned wet and glassy.

He grasped the frames tight with possessiveness and frustration; confusion and profound sadness. Then finally, release them in utter defeat.

"Nothing?" Batman prompted.

The answer remained a quietly spoken "No... M'sorry..."

Bruce moved to take them back but the meta's grip on them tightened once more, unwilling to let go while still staring at them miserably.

"Can I – Can I keep em? I mean, their mine right? Can'I have them back?"

Technically they were part of Batman's investigation, but he'd already screened them. Taking them back at this moment felt like forcibly removing a teddy bear from a frightened child and he needed the boy to remain as oddly cooperative and understanding as he had been up until this point, despite the lack of explanations or freedoms.

"Yes" Bruce assured with certainty. After all, if he needed them in the future he wouldn't have far to go to retrieve them.

"Thanks, Bats" He quietly sighed, loosening his death-grip on the headgear slightly.

"- The cave has a strict inventory policy when it comes to evidence I'm afraid, sir" Alfred announced, marching dutifully through the door in his surgical mask and apron. Effortlessly, he balances a tray of tea and delicious smelling lunchables in one hand and a thick wad of papers in the other. "- You'll need to sign this release form."

Alfred moved around the room, depositing the tray and releasing the boy's restraints so as to furnish him with the papers and a pen. The young man shrugged casually, not at all suspicious (unlike Bruce who was well aware no such ridiculous policy existed) and quietly scrawled something into the bottom box, hand jumping mechanically back and forth across the paper as his hungry eyes sized up the platter of lunch-time delectables with a carnal focus.

"Very good, sir" the butler soothed smoothly, pouring the tea as Bruce stole forward to snatch up the paper in disbelief. "Milk or cream, sir?" came added sardonic query, thick with amusement and triumph.

Bruce grunted and strode out of the room, eyes never leaving the messily penned name at the bottom of the page.

_Wally West_


	5. Another Earth

West has spent most of the next day sleeping, his body seeming unable to regulate between zealous wakefulness and long periods of unconsciousness. This works in Bruce's favour as Dick is at school and unable to sit in with him and Alfred is busy with his usual chores.

Fortunately his now approaching 13 hours of consecutive sleep have given Bruce ample opportunity to intravenously feed nutrients into his body without his usual wakeful exuberance burning them up. Already colour has begun to return to his face and his features seem a little less ghastly.

The respite has also done amazing work on his wounds. His eye is now fully recovered and skull had nearly finished healing when he re-bandaged it 6 hours ago, even covered in an inch of pale red-haired regrowth. It's exactly miraculous recoveries like this that make meta humans such dangerous enemies.

The name pulled from his muscle memory proves less useful but is also unlikely to be fictitious given how it was procured. Wests in the vicinity of Central City are not overly common yet there's still more than a couple of families of interest for Bruce to investigate.

Almost seeming to deny logic and fate, the trail once again runs cold. Ultimately the essential lead gives him nothing but a run around and more wasted him, yet one branch of Wests does catch his eye. Or rather, their hair colours do.

Ira and Nadine West.

One of whom has 'Wally's' exact shade of red peering back from their passport photos of 20 years prior. The pieces don't quite fit, but the resemblance is frighteningly coincidental and Bruce doesn't believe in coincidences.

Though now both deceased from natural age-related causes, the couple produced a son – Rudolph West – who's current age would fit that of Wally's father (had he reproduced fairly young) were it not for the fact the boy died of leukaemia at the age of 11.

A decade later Ira and Nadine adopted a daughter, Iris West (same hair, same eyes, Bruce notes) but with her current age of 27 and Wally West's youngest estimates at 17 it's simply not possible for her to be his mother. She has no children and married for the first time only early last year.

Bruce is missing something, he knows this without any doubt. The picture on the puzzle box is right but none of the jigs fit together.

Even with a name Wally West remains a John Doe.

He hears a faint crash from inside the medical enclosure and knows Mr. West has finally awoken. He curses Alfred for persuading him to release West from his restraints a couple of hours ago while he's 'dead to the world' as the Englishman so eloquently phrased it.

Guilty green eyes turn to stare at him from the sight of a old teacup he's accidentally knocked from the bedside to the floor. This is not the first cup his nerves have cost the Wayne crockery collection while left by himself so fortunately Alfred has stopped using the china and settled for simple ceramic mugs.

He grins at him sheepishly, though Bruce observes he's not trembling as much as he used to in extended isolation. A sign of improvement... or the discovery of a more adequate coping mechanism.

"Oops." He jokes somewhat stiffly.

The Batman disregards the downed mug – it's inconsequential after all and strides towards the bedside. West tends to thrash like a dog in his sleep and the angry red lines linger at his extremities from before he removed his bindings. Batman gathers the man's wrists firmly into his hand causing the man to squirm forcefully against him with a yelp of "Hey Bats! Said' I was sorry! Don't -" He calms rapidly as soon as he understands Batman does not intend to return him to his restraints, Bruce instead swabbing the shallow wounds with anti-septic before releasing him once more.

West celebrates his new found freedom by massaging the previously captured skin gingerly and uses the reprieve to scratch at the apparently itching bandages on his head.

He is a man of simple concerns, either by design or injury and forgoing his usual hunger his first concern is apparently the discomfort of his bandages.

"M'i gonna have'ta keep these on much longer?" he faintly raps a knuckle against the side of his head (Bruce can imagine the hollow 'conk' that should echo back from inside) and grins "Feels all better".

Batman says nothing but glides forwards to begin unravelling the bandages. The scars that served as gleaming red evidence of the surgery have faded to a pale pink and his hair has grown another two inches, long enough to begin to curl boyishly at the tips.

West sets to work enthusiastically scratching here and there to relieve his apparently still nagging itch and Bruce leaves him to it, half listening for posterities sake as West begins to absently chatter about this or that. Obscure English comedies, cheaply made science fiction programs and the finer points of why donkeys would beat zebras were they ever to erupt into some nonsensical equestrian war.

Batman says nothing to encourage or end the one-sided conversation, but that doesn't seem to dishearten West any.

The results from the spectrum of tests he initiated while the meta was under are ready to be collected and Batman reviews the reports on the monitors of the medical station unsurprised that they confirm what he had come to suspect.

With all major injuries healed, West's body has been able to begin storing much needed energy again without needing to burn through it; he's retained a few new pounds and while it isn't much it's an improvement. His resting pulse has increased, along with temperature and metabolic rate as his 'powers' begin to reawaken.

He glances to the man inanely blathering to the room around them (now about Vietnamese food and full-body animal pyjama-suits). No doubt that same energy will soon begin to extend far beyond just his vocal cords.

It may prove difficult to contain him and Bruce can't risk West escaping into the rest of the cave or manor. Its at times like this Batman considers needing a second facility – one located somewhere isolated and far less damning, like underwater or geosynchronous orbit.

"-And- Your not really listening to me, huh?"

" I am" he replies shortly, to which West grins gently.

He wishes he wasn't.

"So like, did you find my folks? Cn'I go home, cos I feel way better?"

"No" Batman replies carefully "I'm still searching."

"Oh" West replies, his disappointment is palpable. Green eyes downcast to wrists and he once again fiddles with the smarting little lines there "Walter West a bumb name then?" he asks with a note of self-accusation.

"Wally West" Bruce corrects. The slip on the name makes no difference, he's already thoroughly screened any and all Wests with W forenames. Thankfully not too many people seem keen on the alliteration.

"What kinda name is Wally?" He muses with frustration, glancing up at Batman with self-depreciation in his eyes.

"Wallace" Batman offers in explanation.

West scrunches his nose in a childish look of mild disgust. It's almost faintly amusing. He moves on to a new topic.

"What'ya gonna do with me?" his voice is laced with nervousness.

He doesn't see Batman as threatening or ill-meaning … though he probably should... but no matter how decent a host or how great the room-service being strapped to a bed in a cell is still being strapped to a bed in a cell.

Hearing his musings of room-service his gut shoots him a painful ache, eliciting him to hug his arms to it with a small groan of discomfort.

"You need to eat" Bats declares in that voice that's like 90% coco hot chocolate. He can only reply with a soft nod and grimace.

"Will you cope here alone?"

He glances around the room nervously, honestly unsure of the answer. He knows it's pathetic and there's no danger in being here alone, but it's like once they leave the room he's got no concept of how long they've been gone for.

Robin laughs at him for getting so jumpy when he goes for bathroom breaks but honestly he thinks the kid needs some more fibre in his diet cos he seems to take so very very long.

He tries to force some degree of confidence

"I'll be fine."

The Batman stares at him, probably able to smell, taste and hear his lie in stereo but nods nevertheless and escapes the cell. Then he's all alone again curling his knees up so he can hug them to him.

Bats probably only went to go get the doc; despite how he dresses he's secretly not sure the man is actually a real doctor... but then again Batman isn't a real bat... so he supposes it all fits. How long could that possibly take? A few minutes?

The black walls of the room stare back all around at him tauntingly. The urge to see what's on the other side of them has been building almost unbearably since he last woke up. Call it stirr-crazy, or cabin fever or whatever but suddenly he'd give just about anything for the open road or countryside stretching endlessly ahead of him; the feel of wind in his hair or bugs in his teeth.

Okay maybe that last one was a little weird.

He tries to distract himself from the enclosure, humming some asinine tune about fences from somewhere the distant corners of his mind. It frustrates him. His brain seems to have taken to furiously clinging with great clarity onto meaningless crap like Scamp's Adventure, yet his friends and family...

He cant call up the sound of his dad's laugh, or the smell of his mom's cooking – the classic family things – all he can remember is some little shit animated dog singing about how horrible it is to be loved.

_A world without fences... something something something free, something something something something real dog out in meeeeee..._

Okay so maybe he couldn't remember that so well either.

He wonders if his mom was a good cook, or one of those comically terrible ones like in sit-coms who could burn water? If his dad had red hair like him, or brown, or blond? If he had a trio of sisters or a twin brother?

Mostly he wonders why no ones looking for him.

Maybe he's a bad guy; the kind that's not worth finding.

He's hummed 'A World Without Fences' three times over by now he realises. If that song was like, lets say 3 minutes long, then doesn't that mean its been like 9 minutes already? That's almost 10 minutes! Shouldn't Bats be back by now? What if he's never coming back?

He curls up a little tighter and doesn't bother to hide his whimper. Who's gonna hear him anyway?

He's trembling a little and he doesn't remember when that started but it's enough to make the bed frame rattle; to jostle the red goggles sitting on the bedside table that make him ache to look at, though he cant remember why.

The hydraulic door hisses open, the doc's British tones slicing through the silence

"Pea and Ham soup sir, and if you can manage them afterwards mince pies with brandy cream – an old family recipe -"

Fearful eyes lock onto the doc's gentler brown ones

"-Oh my dear boy." the doc soothes.

Alfred sets the tray down as always and pulls up a chair next to the bed. He'll make sure to scold Master Bruce for leaving Mr. West so unattended. Now he's too fussed to eat his dinner.

He's happy to sit with him regardless; his expressions are so open and its pleasant to see his cooking be so blatantly appreciated even if his table manners are deplorable. They chat and he calms enough to eat. The boy is no chore to be around really; his knowledge of Ripping Yarns, The Missionary and Monty Python is a delight for the repressed Michael Palin fan at the butler's utterly English core, though strangely enough on more than one occasion he finds himself noticing its like Mr. West has had their exact conversation before.

Dick arrives home later into the day and immediately hurries to find Bruce, who's scowling at the cold cup of coffee Alfred's brought him in civilised revenge for 'abandoning' West.

"Bruuuuuuce!"

He scampers down the stairs and into the bowels of the cave, blue eyes sparking with the kind of glee he only gets from triumph or mischief. Bruce hopes it's triumph. He isn't sure he can handle Dick's mischief as well as Alfred's.

"Look!"

He slaps down a flier in front of him; the world announcement of the latest additions to the hulking behemoth that is the Pokemon franchise: 'X' and 'Y'.

"aaaaand -" Dick begins "Guess who they approached to play Aragorn and Gandalf first but couldn't do it each for personal reasons -"

"Cage and Connery" Bruce answers without missing a beat. Dick nods so hard his head may fall off his shoulders if he makes a habit of it.

" - Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth." He finishes, gasping for breath.

_Arthur Conan Doyle_. Bruce is impressed. Highly impressed. Dick has shown great initiative following up something even he dismissed.

"Good work, Dickie"

His protégée looks poised to spontaneously-combust in happiness and he's earned it. Some sort of treat is defiantly in order...

So that was it. The missing piece of the puzzle.

Wally West was from another earth.

* * *

AN:

Well that's everything I had written down typed up for now. This fic's only going to be a short one in possible preparation for a longer follow-on so this is now about half way through. I saw the thing about Connery/Cage on reddit so I have no idea if its actually true or not. R+R.


	6. Speed Need

Another day and West's now strong enough to stand and walk.

Since being able to do so he has no intention of returning to bed, despite Alfred's somewhat pointed suggestions of doing so. The restraints have been dispensed with, though confinement is still necessary, and so there isn't far for him to venture. The novelty of his limited range of motion holds for a few hours but the manner in which Bruce observes his thin muscles sporadically tense and release makes it evident to his trained eyes that West thirsts for greater freedom.

The more energy he is able to build the twitchier he becomes.

Dick insists he has a right to know his origin. Alfred believes he's been through quite enough already and the information would make little difference, if not only upset him more.

He is better oblivious. Bruce makes the decision to keep him this way.

His reasons are different. With the disturbances West caused traversing dimensions accidentally, the global discord he stands to sow were he to put a more concerted effort into reproducing the effect is much too dangerous. Not only to their own dimension, but to the target one and West himself.

Bruce will work on the creation of a stable alternative on West's behalf, but best estimates put the construction of such a machine years from this early stage of conception to realization. Forgoing the material factors, the mathematics are also against them. This presses Bruce more. Enough money can bring any sort of contraption imaginable into existence, but cannot change the laws of physics or probability.

With an infinite number of alternate universes the search for West's dimension of origin could last thousands years without success. Its so futile its almost a fool's errand.

He will definitely need to situate him on this earth for the indefinite future.

West continues to become more difficult to contain as he recovers.

Another two days and he's bouncing off the walls, over-charged with a restlessness for which he has no outlet.

He begs Alfred and Dick to be allowed beyond his cell. They stand firm against him, but individually take it upon themselves to contest Bruce's decision to keep him under lock and key. Dick wavers and almost succumbs to the idea of sneaking West out for just a few hours but upon watching the young man's speed increase in leaps over the last few days realises it will prove too difficult to retrieve him without incident should the meta attempt to run off on him.

Seeing his pleas fall on deaf ears ignites the temper Bruce suspected West to posses.

The last few hours he's been uncharacteristically snappy and stand-offish, his dislike of solitude temporarily given a back seat as his desire to be irritated at everything and everyone around him takes the wheel.

Alfred takes the petulance in his stride, well versed in the tantrums of stubborn young men. Dick struggles but the butler has him in hand, reassuring him his friend is feeling trapped and frustrated and that his anger will eventually burn itself out... Or they can always stop feeding him the Englishman jokes conspiratorially.

Personally Bruce is amazed West's mood has managed to stay buoyant for so long in the face of his recent challenges. He thinks this is overdue, like the radiation after a nuclear meltdown. The man's peculiar brand of unsolicited trust couldn't have lasted forever behind the walls of a cell. Bruce is actually pleased by the reaction. West's previous willingness to put his absolute faith in Batman and Robin was naive to the point of being suspicious.

Currently he paces the enclosure irritable as a tiger with a toothache. The variant of pyjamas he's been wearing throughout his stay still hang off him but he has begun to fill out. His face is loosing the look of someone who recently dropped an unnatural amount of weight extremely quickly and beginning to appear more natural.

There is an extra fieriness in his hair and eyes.

Unbeknownst to West the whole medical room carries an electric charge in it's walls ever ready to dispense a disabling shock as one of it's many fail-safe features. Batman's finger is stayed from pressing that button as of yet. Despite his superior speed (and now weight), with which he could easily rush past Alfred and perhaps even Robin in a bid for freedom, he hasn't risked doing so for fear of hurting them in the process.

He is not yet an enemy and treated carefully will not become one.

He sits – stands – paces – sits – shouts

"AAAArg! Just lemme' out already!"

He lashes a kick against one of the computer banks, yelps and hops up and down clutching his foot having just damaged a toe.

Then repeats.

Bruce trusts Alfred's assurances that his conniption will simmer down of it's own accord – hopefully before he breaks all 10 toes or more equipment- and chooses to ignore him, turning his attention to a new case. West's presence has not stopped the Batman's vigil of his city.

After a few more hours of raging West is once again docile, hungry and suitably contrite. Apparently he is not the type of man comfortable with the sub-par treatment of others and his apologetic guilt cools his blood. He asks to see Robin, but its late and Dick is in bed. For upsetting his ward West deserves to wait the night out with a guilty conscience.

The fight in him will resurface eventually and Bruce needs to prepare for that duel with a realistic solution. The incident raises one critical point: putting West into care is not a viable option. He would only feel this same need escape.

Batman marches into the enclosure unsurprised to find West huddled on the bed in an effort to look as unintimidating as possible. He smiles at Bruce meekly upon seeing him enter and waves at him mildly in a gesture so fast it becomes but a blur of colour to the eye.

"Hey Bats – ah!"

Batman throws him a tracksuit, running shoes and thick strip of black material, intending for West to catch them but apparently over-estimating the man's coordination. He fumbles before pinching the slender black cloth by the tip and dangling it warily as if he's just been thrown a live cobra.

"Put this on"

West eyes him incredulously, watching for any signs of jest or weakening resolve behind Bruce's stiff cowl. He finds none and sighs with resignation before complying.

The tracksuit is a special material Bruce has synthesized for the occasion. It's structure is heavily based on the scraps of uniform originally retrieved from West's body. The meta is hesitant for a moment before hastily redressing, folding the blindfold around his eyes and concluding with a sceptical "Okaaaay?"

"Stand up."

and he does

Batman places the palm of one gauntlet between West's protruding shoulder blades.

"Walk"

"'Can't see!"

He applies enough pressure to tip the smaller man forward slightly, his legs catching themselves and naturally moving to walk in response. Batman finishes by plugging his ears.

"HEY!"

West is affronted, but utterly at Batman's mercy. Bruce steers him from the enclosure and through the Batcave into a small gymnasium he has built for this task. The bats screech loudly at the unfamiliar presence. West remains blind and deaf to the details around him.

He's freed from the blindfold and earplugs upon arrival in the new space and looks around with interest, darting over from inspecting one piece of equipment to the next. He tinkers a bit with the last one before returning to Batman's side and cocking his head.

"Sooo, s'answer's the do you lift question, huh?"

With West in tow Bruce crosses the space to the main event.

He has built the custom treadmill himself to withstand what he estimates West's abilities can do. The meta's recent outburst has demonstrated he has enough expendable energy to begin testing and his earlier hysterics have made him obedient and eager to please as a bonus. The opportunity is worth capitalizing on. Even in West's still lacking condition the results will lay groundwork Bruce can use to estimate his capabilities at his peak.

"Get on."

"Um. D'whi have to?"

"You wanted to run earlier". Demanded was more the word for it as Bruce recalls.

"Well yeah, but -" West trails off, watching the machine as if it poses the threat of coming alive to bite him.

With another push to his back Batman bodily shifts him onto the treadmill; West puts up a token resistance by digging in his heels but is ultimately easily overpowered by the Batman's superior strength, weight and resolve. Once in place he activates the console, the movement of the belt beneath West's feet prompting him to move whether he likes it or not.

Bruce has programmed it to gradually rise from 0 to 80 mph over a time elapse of 30 seconds. He estimates this is well within West's capabilities. The meta stumbles at first but quickly matches the rapidly increasing pace to exceed the speed and acceleration of the average car at a light jog.

He is far from fit and awkwardly panting, but as the treadmill moves into it's second program to elevate his speed to 160 mph his form improves and heavy breathing lessens.

His body grows more comfortable the faster it moves, Batman notes.

A grin has broken out on his face so wide it's a surprise it fits and West seems happy to keep running in-place unattended as Bruce studies the results of the computer within his gauntlet.

West's body isn't generating the same energy signature of the white hole, nor the boson or exotic particles associated with teleportation. Bruce theorises an extra factor must have been at work to initiate his accidental leap through dimensions. If so, even when incentivized West will have no way of attempting to return on his own.

This conclusion does not change Bruce's decision to keep his origin concealed, but does put him at ease.

West begins to laugh like a fool and Bruce glances back to observe the program now has him running at 560 mph. He remotely commands it to hold at this speed. West is finding it manageable, but challenging and Bruce doesn't care to push him any faster in his current state. He allows him to run to his heart's content, alternating between studying the test results and surveying West for evidence of over-exertion or discomfort.

The run continues for 31 minutes before his movements begin to grow laboured and Bruce disengages the treadmill, letting the meta slow to a stop. To think that even mutated the human body is capable of such speed is a testament to homosapien biology.

As soon as the mill stops all remaining energy seems to rush out of West. He trips on exhausted wobbly legs as he clambers off the belt, panting in earnest. Batman plies him with water from a flask as West vaguely slumps against him with a sloppy grin. West's body naturally hyper-produces adrenaline, endorphins and certain other hormones.

A single glance at him now and Bruce wouldn't have needed a blood test to tell him that.

He looks like a racehorse after the Grand National; all shivering muscle and thin legs; hair slicked back with sweat; chest heaving like bellows and dazed by the sudden loss of velocity.

The moment Bruce returns him to sitting on the medical enclosure's bed he's asleep. Bruce will permit him a couple of hours rest but after that he must wake to eat something before bedding down for the night. Until then he removes West's shoes and suit, towelling off the excess sweat before re-dressing him in his usual attire. West doesn't wake.

Bruce leaves, satisfied Alfred will later attend to anything he has neglected and returns upstairs in his own bid for sleep.

* * *

AN:

I always thought it was a bit weirdly coincidental that Batman just so happens to have a giant inter-dimension portal ready-built in 'A Better World'. Its not really the average kind of thing you pop down to Ikea to get on a whim.


	7. Boy Wonder

The duvet is heavy, thick, plush and warm with his body heat. Wally snuggles back into it with contentment. He feels good for what seems like – and apparently is – the first time he can remember. His pulse feels alive in his veins, circulating through him like the jolt from defibrillator paddles shocking life back into a corpse. He basks in the feeling, sleepy and cosy.

Vaguely he recalls the doc somewhere in the night. A mirage so hazy it poses equal chance of being a dream as reality. He hopes he didn't say anything inappropriate to the guy while half asleep. He can't be sure but he seems like that kinda guy that might do that. He also hopes Bats will let him run again today. It felt so good yesterday it almost started becoming sort of sexual.

"You gonna get up today? Or just spent all day pretending to be a burrito?" Robin's voice mocks slyly from his bedside.

"B'ritto" Wally replies as he roles over to get a look at Robin and blinks owlishly. "Not at school?"

"Obviously" Robin smirks, rolling his eyes fondly "Weekend."

Burrito-Wally nods dumbly before turning a little pink in the face. "M'sorry bout' yesterday"

"Yeah, I know" the Boy Wonder replies, smirk dropping into a soft smile "We're good."

The meta shoots up like a striking cobra, wrapping his arms around Robin's neck and nuzzling into his hair like an especially over-affectionate cat. He's still groggy and warm and apparently wonderfully forgiven and feeling cuddly. He giggles – in a totally manly way- at Robin's discomfort as he stiffens before awkwardly squirming to get loose of the embarrassing embrace like the teenager he is.

"Hush now, sweet Dick" West sniggers in a mock-deep voice.

Robin feels himself go totally still in shock before berating the overly obvious reaction.

"W-What?"

"Dude!" West replies, abruptly holding him by the shoulders at arms length with a look of pure scandal "From 'Return of the Spotted Dick Part 2, the Sequel, The Revenge-aning'. How can'you not have seen it!? S'like, the pinnacle of killer mu'tunt pudding B-movies!"

"...Uhuh..."

"Same guy that made Mega Shark verses Giant Octopus"

"...is that a fact?"

West nods enthusiastically, apparently not noticing the strange slip in Robin's tone and grins at him like a dope. Eager to move the conversation along from the near-miss, Dick pokes the meta playfully in the stomach as retribution "- Anyway, come on and get up"

"Why? M'I gonna get to run again?"

"Noooope - " Robin pops cheerfully "- Batman's says I'm allowed to beat you up!"

The boy wonder seems far to overjoyed at the prospect for Wally's tastes.

"Wha'? Whyyyyy?"

"Physical therapy." Robin responds with an impish grin.

"Snt' it supposed to be Physi-o-therapy?"

"I know what I said."

The banter feels familiar – but then of course it should – Wally has bantered with Robin may times since he arrived here. West pouts and blows a raspberry before moving at Robin's insistence to dress, blind and deafen himself once more.

The gym from yesterday has been filled with mats that Wally's feet sink into a little as he steps on them. He's reminded of a deflated bouncy castle – which he apparently has experience of.

He quickly discovers its not as springy as he imagined when Robin drop-kicks him into it.

A verbal explanation of the exercise would have done.

The sparring doesn't feel especially foreign to him, but it seems he's not even remotely capable of holding his own against Batman's protégée. His ass finds itself reconnecting with the floor many more times in the hours to follow. The two should cut the foreplay and start dating if their gonna hook up so often.

Wally is much taller and somewhat heavier than the lithe 13 year-old menace, but Robin is fit, quick as a whip and skilled. While Wally can sloppily dodge the attacks he can see coming, Robin's heavier hits come from his blind spots – of which there are apparently many – and sneak attacks.

There is a degree of instinctive combat reaction in West's muscle memory (the extent of which was Robin's original task to discern before he started taking a distracting enjoyment in landing West groaning onto his butt over and over again). He can block some hits, counter or avoid others and knows how to put his body into a punch when adequately motivated to do so. Otherwise he doesn't seemed so thrilled with the limited movement punch-up.

As he begins to whine about his freshly bruised tail-bone between pants Robin concludes he's kicked him around enough.

He has hardly the honed reflexes or combat aptitude of a trained assassin or super-criminal. Unless he was a totally inept one. Bruce notes Robin's report of the morning's activities and remains unable to discern the purpose of the scraps of suit West was found in beyond simple friction-resistance and streamlining. All factors are being considered as Bruce weighs the possible outcomes of turning West loose on the general public.

Should it prove safe enough he'll need papers – all of which Batman is easily capable of fabricating; records of his birth, education, tax and employment history. He'll require a place of origin and city of residence; somewhere large and tolerant of meta-human mutations where he can get lost in the crowd. Batman will be watching him of course. Since he was the one to put West back together he now claims responsibility for the impetuous young man – for better or worse.

West showers and Alfred feeds him, remaining unphased and gracious as the meta pesters him for seconds and thirds. After the run his appetite has asserted itself with a vengeance, seeming to become the dominant all-consuming thought in his head. This voracious need to consume works against West in his public safety evaluation; something so close to an addiction could easily turn him to a life of crime if funds were to become lacking.

Properly fuelled his muscle tone has quickly begun to re-develop. Consciously or not, West's body wracks itself with micro-vibrations which keep his muscles in a constant state of toning, adding shape and bulk to his thin limbs.

Running seems to have catalysed this within him. Bruce would like to investigate further, but Batman is needed elsewhere.

The escape and subsequent confrontation of a number of inmates following a prison-break in Arkham Asylum keeps Batman and Robin busy for the rest of the weekend and totally absent from the cave or manor grounds.

The Joker is amongst the escapees and is determined to lead the dynamic duo in a deadly game of cat and mouse across the length and breadth of Gotham. Bruce cannot rest until he returns the madman to captivity.

Alfred suspects they will return battered, bruised and with broken bones. No encounter with the Joker is sustained without injury. He worries for them.

In the meantime he tries to busy himself with West; attending to him as appropriate and leading the compliant meta-human senseless through the cave to the gymnasium each day.

The respite from Bruce's testing also gives Alfred the opportunity he's been waiting for to inflict some much needed elocution lessons upon the young man, while keeping the butler close to the cave should the masters return and have need of his medical aid.

West doesn't seem particularly enthused by the tuition but endures it with patience and jokes.

He will never speak the Queen's English and Alfred acknowledges such propriety wouldn't suit the youngsters easy informal charm, but the focused set of lessons does seem to help lessen his slurr until it resembles something closer to a lazy accent. Alfred is quite pleased with the result. West wasn't so concerned by the missing letters or words but is apparently happy that Alfred is happy and does his best to remember his teachings.

Two days without the presence of either and Wally too is notably worried for Batman and Robin.

The 'doc' is apt at disguising it, but his own concern grows with every hour and Wally is gifted with a deep natural empathy that allows him to perceive this. He feels terrible for the sweet Englishman's upset. It only serves to amplify his own.

Waiting for the situation to resolve itself with patience and humility is apparently not one of his stronger attributes. The extended absences of his host and friend doesn't help to calm the nervous energy that no amount of running seems to be able to prevent building inside him.

Even accelerated, his mind is apparently no match for his feet.

The doc arrives with a hostess-trolley and props open the enclosure door to wheel it through as is his new custom since a conventional tray became too small to carry his meals.

Before Wally's aware of anything beyond the drive to help he finds he's sped past him and through the crack in the door. The rush of adrenaline from leaving the cell at his heels swamps his higher brain functions in an all encompassing natural high and he whoops loudly, glancing back at the enclosure in awe of his own freedom, shortly before smacking into a meaty grey wall.

Jade eyes slowly inch forward in disbelief and horror.

"Bats!" He yelps.

The Dark Knight's Batsuit is savaged with cuts and gashes, mud and burns. Robin is stood behind him in similar condition, the two having clearly just returned. The boy wonder is the picture of the exhaustion that Batman must also feel but resolutely hides. Regardless, he manages to pull West up from his dumbstruck position on the floor by the collar of his hospital attire. The enraged expression on his face is more than enough to silence any attempts to squirm free or thoughts of protest in the meta; even going so far to actually scare Wally. The skin at the back of his neck pricks upright in fear.

"Get. Back. Inside" The Batman growls, each word sliced apart from it's predecessor with the crushing clench of the man's teeth.

"I- um, I was just – Was gonna-" Despite the doc's best efforts Wally finds his words don't seem to work at all any more.

Batman roughly takes his wrist, his gauntlet-covered grip vice-like and makes Wally flinch in pain. He is hauled unforgivingly back into the enclosure where the doc still stands unsure of what transpired beyond a sudden gust of wind.

"Oh Master B- " He greets before catching glance of the frightened and now struggling red-head pulled into the room behind him "- Oh my."

West is locked away without second thought. Bruce is in no mood to deal with him and his ill-timed escape attempt only exacerbates the black fury coursing through him. The Joker killed three children this night. Three children that shouldn't be dead. Another three families that will never heal.

Alfred wraps up the injuries he can see. Fractured bones and broken ribs.

Robin is silent throughout; wounded in a way that cannot be re-set. The children asphyxiated in joker venom in front of him. His eyes are wide and blank, squashing any reaction in an attempt to save-face.

Alfred insists him to bed. He has school tomorrow.

Dick shakes his head; he's sure he'll see the dead eyes of his parent's in the children's faces if he dreams tonight. Bruce wonders if a light sedative might help.

Alfred's zeal remains, bidding Dick to say goodnight to Mr. West before retiring. Bruce watches the butler's plot with muted interest as Robin wanders lost into the enclosure.

West his cowed on the bed and takes but one glance at his visitor before dragging Robin into his chest, like holding him will make the world right again. Like it's not three children short. Perhaps it does. Dick's self-imposes stoicism dissolves after a minute of utter stillness and then he's wrapping his arms tight around West like its a natural reaction.

For now Bruce will allow West to act as a human therapy-dog for Dick's sake.

In the morning his escaping indiscretion must be dealt with.

* * *

AN

In Young Justice I really liked Wally and Dick's almost-questionable-but-not friendship. Although their now very different ages I wanted to keep that. I vaguely remember in the Static Shock/JLU crossover episode Batman mentions Robin is off with the titans (this is while Wally is already in the Justice League), so that's why Dick is a lot younger than Wally in this and where the Robin from this continuity will eventually end up.


	8. Rude Awakening

"Enough is enough, Master Bruce. You cannot keep him here any longer."

The butler holds no grudges against West for his actions; basic human freedom is something to be sough and fought for. Regardless of Bruce's contrary preoccupations he is confident the meta meant no harm and truly did seek primarily to come to the aid of Batman and Robin. Dick echoes his actions where born from a worried impulse rather than a bid to be free. Bruce is not so easily convinced no matter what or how hard West argues in his defense.

His disbelief affronts West, but that changes his actions none

"You took advantage of the situation" He growls through a deep black grimace.

_Took advantage of Alfred's trust and hospitality._

"That wasn't it!" West snarls back, outraged but lacking the focus to direct his emotion into convincing argument

"'Sides; where do you get off bein' angry with me! I'm the one been' stuck in a box for the last month -!"

_2 weeks, but time seems to travel differently for West_

He punches the wall of the enclosure in ire then sharply retracts his aching fist. His speech impediment has greatly improved, though the overly slow pace at which he takes to speak each word implies this is not without effort.

"- Okay, Yeah! Maybe I did take advantage a bit, but'cha can't just lock me up like a prisoner n' not expect me to want out! I've done nothin' wrong!"

He scrubs his fingers angrily though his gleaming red hair before jabbing an accusing finger forward at the Bat on Bruce's chest. "You're a real piece'a work, you know that Bats?!"

His anger is real enough, but his actions have disturbed the tenuous understanding –almost resembling trust – that has served them mutually until now.

"Lemme' out. Lemme' out. Lemme' Out. LEMME' OUT!" He rages, climbing up into Bruce's personal space with bared teeth.

He can't take it anymore.

Then he's rushing around the enclosure in but a blur of motion, slamming his weight into the walls in the desperate hope something will give.

"Talk about stir-crazy" Dick mutters to himself as Bruce emerges from West's cell. He observes the flurry of activity through the cell's one-way glass, belatedly realizing he too has grown to think of it as a cell to hold; no longer a haven to heal. He agrees with Alfred, and spares no time in telling Bruce so in no uncertain terms.

His opinion only serves to make the Batman's lips pull into an even grimmer scowl.

Alfred too is watching the high-speed display with stoic sympathy.

So easily could it have been any one of his household on the receiving end of those collisions; yet they remain safe and untroubled by the meta's abilities.

West is a good lad and keeping him here so clearly against his will is starting to creep with cruelty. He makes the decision.

"Your game of catch and release is at an end, Master Bruce" He tells the Batman firmly before leaving to make the tea.

Bruce recognized the tone of voice.

Used so many times thorough his troubled childhood and adolescence; it is the voice of the father Alfred truly is too him, reining him back from inappropriateness or foolhardiness.

To rail against it is to deny the sun from rising. Should he not take the appropriate action Alfred will turf West loose of his own accord – risk assessments and threat reports be damned.

"Feed him,"

_Say Goodbye_

"Then initiate failsafe protocol E"

_Knockout gas_

Robin nods.

Batman sweeps away without any doubts it will be done.

He has clothing to bug, shoes to chip and will need to modify the trackers to successfully interpret West's location at extreme speeds.

If planted in a city West would only run further. He will allow the meta freedom to roam for now. He works to prepare this all in record time.

In a few hours, West will receive the most rude awakening of his life.

He does.

West remembers the profound feeling of confusion, then betrayal as the room filled with gas; vents he'd never noticed before spewing it like venom into the tiny space of the cell. Then nothing.

He groans as he comes around, the harshness of the unprovoked attack pouncing onto his immediate thoughts before he can open his eyes.

The floor beneath his body is thready beneath his fingertips and fragrant with an unmistakable aroma.

Grass.

He jolts to sit upright – the revelation hitting like the impact of a sledgehammer to his spine. He's up on his feet before he can think, a nearly holy swell of wind rippling across his body. A euphoria he's thirsted for as if adrift for weeks in salt-water.

His nostrils greedily suck in the fragrances caught on the breeze: the grass at his feet punctuated with tiny daisies, the damp soil wet from recent rain, the vague smell of ash vault and fumes from some not-too distant road. With the feeling of the earth at his toe-tips he has a moment of such intimacy with the world around him that Pocahontas and her colors of the wind ain't got nothing on him.

…But at what cost?

He pivots on the spot, confirming the heavy feeling caused by the stone of suspicion in his gut.

He's alone.

Only the tree-line of the small wooded clearing peers back at him.

_Bats?_

"Okay Bats! Ha ha; you're a real comedian!" He shouts hopefully at the empty void. A few birds stir from their nests at the abrupt noise.

A pause.

"Bats?! Comon', I'm sorry" And he is; he really is. He steadfastly ignores the note of hysteria creeping into his voice.

Silence is apparently his newest friend. One that invites itself to a get-together it isn't welcome at and makes everything tense and awkward.

An undeniable feeling of nervousness has him lapping the clearing twice at super-speed before the reluctant reality of the situation slowly rolls in like a rainstorm over a barbeque.

Okay.

_OKAY!_

No need to panic.

This is what he wanted right?

_Right!_

Itch bees; he's a young adult male white guy in America. Even with nothing else he's got that going for him!

He's got – Okay, what _has _he got?

He does a quick inventory check, brushing his hands down his body to frisk himself. At least they redressed him in a real pair of shoes and that same red tracksuit before dumping him in the middle of nowhere. Trying to explain away running around barefoot in his pyjamas would have been embarrassing.

The same pair of red goggles that once stared at him from his bedside are now around his neck. The lenses have been mended and the frames polished to a gleaming scarlet. His pockets are lumpy like there's something in them and he pulls out a wallet that's dark brown. It's soft and smells suspiciously like actual leather – like, from a cow – not a conveyor belt.

Ain't that just great.

_'__Imprisonment by the Batman; book now for your complementary Italian leather wallet – subject to availability while stocks last ect'_

Fan-tucking-fastic.

Inside are two credit cards, a typed note of their corresponding pin numbers, 500 bucks cash and a passport painting him as 18 year-old Wallace West from California.

_Ooo, Just like Katy Perry._

When the hell they took the photograph he has no idea, but it's unmistakably him. Probably from camera footage.

Crap.

Of course they'd have cameras in the room. He hopes not in the bathroom though… Not after he jacked off in there all those times.

Eww. What a thought.

Pushing that aside, the wallet contains no driver's license so he supposes he's running from here on out. He can't bring himself to complain. Not about that anyway.

The other pocket has become the home of a glossy black cell phone. It's not one of the new ones, but one of the chunky old ones that are made to be dropped and abused without breaking. He's not sure if that's insulting or not.

No contacts, no texts, no voice mail or missed calls. Typical. He's not sure what he was expecting

_"__Hope u lik abandnmnt ishus lol luv Bats xxx"_

In conclusion: he has no idea where he is. He has no idea who he is; but he knows for a fact Batman is a dick.

Could be worse.

Waiting around here will do him no good. This isn't a prank. Bats isn't playing with him. He feels bad for annoying the guy so much he'd rather kick him out than keep him (like his folks?)… But he's also kinda' pissed off by the whole thing.

If he ever sees the guy again there's gonna' be some serious retribution. Like, really irritating retribution. He'll be all over the guy like a tropical rash.

He bends down to make sure his sneakers are laced and tight before glancing around. Without any notion of location or direction one ways just as good as the next. His legs don't waste any time with indecision before he's shooting off, dodging through the sparse trees until the horizon's clear enough for his feet to really fly.

There's some vague notion of not stopping until he comes across a highway and then following it until he can find out where he is, but honestly he can't bring himself to be too bothered at the moment. His feet seem to have a better idea of what's going on than he does and he just lets them lead. Turns out he can't seem to muster the effort to worry about his situation once he's up to speed.

Seems so inconsequential when the world is but a swirl of color around him.

From the shadows of the trees Batman watches West take off through the lenses of his binoculars. He was expecting him to take a little more time to acclimatize to the situation, but West is nothing if not surprising. There is an animalistic surety in the confidence with which he breaks from the clearing; like releasing a captive bird of prey back into the sky that it rules.

He retreats a mile to where the Batwing is hidden. Back to the beginning of this strange escapade. By the time he'd reached the cockpit and reviewed the signals erratically reporting in from West's trackers the meta has already made it to the nearest interstate, traveling at speeds far beyond anything observed in the gymnasium.

Bruce can just imagine the ridiculous smile on his face.

* * *

AN:

Wasn't intended but I'm beginning to read hints of accidental BatFlash in this : / I know Wally isn't from California, but I couldn't exactly have Batman randomly guess Nebraska out of the blue. Nothing of Flash's past is ever really shown or mentioned in the JLU animated series so I'm using that freedom as an umbrella.

This fic will probably wind down to a close over the next couple of chapters.

Thanks to everyone who reviewed!


	9. Wanderlust

For the next fortnight Dick watches as West's locator signal ping-pongs from one city to the next. He never remains more than a single night in each. Bruce has put him in charge of watching West's transactions for any suspicious activity. So far it's nothing but a hit-list of cheap motels and a smattering of each city's greasiest fast-food joints.

His identity as a meta is his own to protect, and so far he seems to be doing so as default. He never eats an overly suspicious amount at any one eatery before moving on to the next and has taken to sprinting down highways at a speed too fast to be caught by the human eye or traffic camera alike.

He zig-zags without much purpose across the country. New York, Chicago, Vegas, Memphis and New Orleans. Then he dodges north west up into Kansas.

He seems to have no logically discernible destination in mind, straying randomly in whatever direction he happens to be pointing in as he departs one city for the next. So far he's doubled back twice - Dick suspects by accident rather than intention – and managed to get himself lost for a little while in the Nevada Desert a few days back.

Robin of all people understands the joy of a life on the move, but this high speed wanderlust seems a little excessive. Bruce doesn't seem so bothered... not by West's lack of destination at any rate...

Since West's trek began a record number of car-accidents haven been occurring on the roads he traverses. No fault of West's own, granted; but the distracting presence of a strange whistling streak of colour as been cited in many of the insurance claims made by drivers whose ill-placed rubber-necking has created road-wide chaos.

Bruce is notably irritated by this. So far there haven't been any casualties. Robin hopes it stays that way.

He isn't sure what action the Batman will be forced to take if not.

Robin is not the only one watching...

-/-

"Can you proof read this? I can't decide if its a little too hammy."

The print-out of Lois Lane's latest story is elegantly yet insistently shuffled under Clark's nose and across the breadth of the keyboard he types at. With a sigh and the acknowledgement he could use a break the paper commands his full attention; as does it's authoress She regards Clark with expectation.

Clark pushes his glasses a little further up the bridge of his nose as he directs his focus to the draft article in front of him. "The Blur?" he questions curiously, reading only the headline and first few lines before sneaking his gaze upwards to Lois.

"I know; hammy right?" She frowns in frustration.

Her nose is wrinkled like a rabbit in a manner Clark finds vaguely adorable, the same way it always does when reduced to running sub-par stories.

The internal corporate machinations of the new secretary their boss is fooling around with has bumped the news hound down to bit-pieces after the two women took an instant (and blatant) dislike to each other.

Puff-piece or not, her findings catch the attention of Superman. Especially with the blur's last known sighting hitting so close to home. With a 117% rise in traffic accidents following sightings of this blur its only a matter of time before someone gets hurt.

It'll be tough to catch if the estimates Lois has but together of it's average velocity are accurate, but he's perhaps the only one equipped to do so.

This does indeed look like a job for Superman...

The end of work rolls around soon enough. It's short notice but Ma and Pa are delighted as ever at the prospect of a visit since he'll be in the area. The thought of catching up with them later tonight brings a smile to Clark's face.

Still, business before pleasure and Superman flies out of Metropolis with the sunset on his back to track down Lois's blur.

To say it's hard to find would be a lie. Local traffic reporters with little else to do out in the wilds cover it's appearance wherever it pops up and within only an hour of dedicated searching he's triangulated where it's likely to be; heading into Missouri towards Jefferson. Even illuminated by the full moon he'd guess this blur needs to be able to see to know where to go, it's probably getting desperate for the break.

He sets down a little way's down the quietest stretch of road he can find - the less chance of the general public becoming involved the better – and waits.

The first thing Clark becomes aware of is a high-pitched whirling noise, like wind whistling through a narrow canyon. Suddenly the empty horizon isn't so empty, a tiny dark dot rocketing towards him like a missile, his super-vision the only thing able to distinguish the pump of the speeding form's track-suit clad arms and legs.

He's not had enough time to truly debate a method of catching it beyond simply trying to grab it as it races passed before the conundrum is solved for him. The person – man? - slams his heels into the earth in a sloppy make-shift braking system.

He grinds to a halt mere feet away from Clark; wide-eyed and disbelieving, shuddering with heavy breathes as he stares up at Superman in absolute and unbridled awe. Slim, pale and crazy red hair to boot.

"D-Dude!" he stutters, arms suddenly waving wildly as if in an attempt to fly away. "-You're Superman!" He explains flabbergasted to Clark's cocked eyebrow; as if the Man of Steel himself was unaware.

It coaxes a gentle but hearty chuckle from the Kryptonian. He was expecting a fight, not a fan. It's so rare to meet someone not intent on causing him bodily harm on one of these investigative outings.

"Yes, I am" he confirms with a small nod and a smile. "Do you know me?"

Clark instantaneously berates himself for saying something so silly. Ma and Pa Kent didn't raise any fools and who hasn't heard of Superman?

The young man nods rapidly at a speed Superman can only just perceive. That's some meta-mutation he's got.

"From TV! And the news and stuff!" Behind his pair of thick red goggles the younger man's eyes have grown to the size of dinner plates and dart about trying to take it all in as though not sure which part of the Kryptonian to look at first.

He squints at the blue of his costume as if it's too bright, his gaze turning abruptly contemplative. He fixates on Superman's red cape as though it's an oddity. Strange, Clark thinks to himself, people usually love the cape. After a momentary frown he quickly recovers his wide smile. Superman regards his barefaced glee carefully but in good humour.

The meta returns his gaze to Superman's own grinning like he's won the lottery.

"So what's up Big Blue?"

He seems to mean well enough and Clark feels a modicum of regret answering "You."

"Me?" the meta parrots dumbfounded, glancing down at himself briefly as if expecting to find something bodily wrong with himself.

"You've been running around a lot?" Clark prompts gently.

"S'what I do!" He puffs his chest out proudly with a salacious smirk. Bit of an ego on this one, no doubt.

Clark sighs.

"You've been causing road accidents."

The smirk drops. "W-what? Road accidents? What road accidents?!" the meta seems upset at the idea, which will either work to his advantage or, well... not.

"You've been distracting drivers on the freeway"

"I've never seen any road accidents!" he defends petulantly, still latched onto the initial accusation. He sounds affronted and a little angry. Clark holds his hands open in a peaceable gesture.

"Not on purpose-" He soothes calmly "-you run past so fast you probably don't look to see what's happening behind you."

The meta opened his mouth and raised a finger to argue then apparently thinks twice, the finger bending back down before retracting fully.

"- So... you here ta' beat me up then?"

Clark sputters.

"Beat you up? Why?"

"Cos' you know; been' troublemaking" the meta murmurs with a grimace. Clark could barely imagine such a thing; the kid's so scrawny it looks like a good shove alone would break him

"It was an accident, right?" He prompts softly, the meta staring up at him with a new look of uncertainty that doesn't sit well on his face. He nods more slowly this time, before an invisible bellows seems to pump him full of bravado.

"What can I say; s'only natural!" He coos, jabbing a thumb into his own chest in exaggeration. "When I run passed all the ladies loose their grip on the steering wheel, ya know?" He wiggles his eyebrows at Superman with a wolfish grin. Clark doesn't really have the heart to burst his little self-deluded bubble.

"Uh, yeah sure."

Wally is less sure of Superman now, understanding how easy it was for a man - who's sneeze could snap him in two like a pretzel - to hunt him down... but the clear blue eyes shining back at him in the moonlight are those of a friend. His gut tells him this, and so far his gut hasn't been wrong. It also hasn't been very helpful though.

He beams at Superman, who manages to smile back weakly despite the hero's obvious awkwardness with his last statement."Ya know, your al'right Supes'"

"...Thanks?" Clark rubs at the back of his head "So...where are you headed anyway?"

The meta shrugs his angular shoulders. Thus far he's roamed more or less wherever the road has taken him; boring city from boring city to boring city. Even Vegas was boring and he didn't ever think he'd say that. Yeah it was loud and bright and looked cool, and Chicago had some awesome food and New Orleans had some awesome accents... but somehow they just don't seem any... fun? They don't really have any pull to keep in within their limits. It's really starting to get him down.

It feels like -

Well, it feels like it is...

Like somethings missing.

Clark watches the meta's expression sour for a few seconds. Superman isn't sure what to make of it.

Abruptly super-hearing proves to be both a blessing and a curse as a far off scream of distress pounds in his eardrums. He turns in the direction of the source of the noise, easy-going expression fading into seriousness.

"I've got to go."

The smaller man regards him inquisitively as he turns back to address him, holding his gaze and the totality of his attention. Emphasizing the importance of his next words.

"-You cant keep running around like you have been. People are going to get hurt". Their incredibly lucky no one has been already.

The meta frowns at the implication but remains silent. It's like scolding a child. "-Just try and settle somewhere soon, okay?"

The youngster both looks and sounds glum in equal amounts as he answers with a vague pout.

"Yeah. Okay."

"Good" Superman answers appraisingly with reassuring smile and a soft nod. "Who knows, maybe I'll see you around some time."

"Really? Ya'think?"

"Sure, why not? Till' then" and with a cursory wave Superman takes back to the sky.

Wally is held absolutely still as he beholds him leave; it's like watching a shooting star.

Holy friggin hell! He totally just met Superman!

-/-

Dick's vigilant watch over West's tracker signal continues.

The meta ends up spending the night in Jefferson before darting into some industrial wasteland named Keystone; it's a proportionately minor jog in comparison to the other distances he has recently covered.

The behavioural anomalies continue as West spends the following 3 days there – the longest time in any one place yet – before taking an evening to hop across the Mississippi into Central. Robin recognises the location from the White Hole incident and corresponding photograph, and apparently so does West as he stumbles onto the city's main high street.

He sniffs around Central for just under a week before using the hard cash Bruce left him to put down a deposit on a cheap and nasty apartment. At this point Bruce forbids him from tracking West any longer; now that the meta's wandering has come to an end.

The Joker has re-emerged from whatever pit he has hidden in since taking the lives of those children. Batman cannot afford for Robin to be distracted.

* * *

AN:

This fic isn't over yet! I just lost my enthusiasm for a bit; sorry for the confusion. I've re-jiggled some of the ages in previous chapters (Robin's now 13 to coincide better with the age he joins the Teen Titans at and Wally's passport now says he's 18). And now in the previous chapter Bruce also abandoned him with his Kid Flash goggles which I completely forgot about. R & R!


	10. Whatever Works

Blonde hair, warm eyes and a smile. Crimson... or maybe vermilion.

Some sort of red. All red is red to him... but for some reason the exact shade seems important.

Copper hair and eyes like his own, but set upon a woman's face.

Black and yellow fluttering on the breeze.

Hair that feels like silk and took 11 years to grow out.

The world slowing to a standstill as his mastery of his powers slips, and his powers become the master of him.

These are things he dreams with absolute certainty... until trying to focus on the details. Then they disintegrate into sand and slip through his fingers.

Wally wakes in his bed, sweating and inexplicably nervous. his heart is palpitating in his chest, as if unaware he was supposed to be sleeping, not running. These nightmares upset him.

He's been trying to condition himself to only think of nice happy things, like sipping mohitos on a beach while wearing an overly obnoxious Hawaiian shirt, or the Swedish bikini team.

But they keep coming back.

The flashing red digital display of his alarm clocks in at 5:26 am. The alarm itself wont go off until 10:30. He wonders vaguely if its slobby to be asleep until mid morning? Nah. If anything it must qualify him for an authentic all day-bed head with no hair product needed, and the gals love a nice bit of (bed) head.

He sniggers at his own joke as he clambers out of bed, hitting up his closet for some running gear and the pair of now-ratty bat-sneakers he somehow hasn't managed to replace in the last 3 months of living in Central. The damn things are just too comfy. Like a jock-strap made of feathers.

He pauses, examining that mental analogy. Its at times like this he wonders if he really wants to know his past... based on the exceptionally weird things he seems to think about or have knowledge of.

Nevermind.

He's out the door for a brisk jog around the block (ie, the whole city) by 5:52, queasy from the lack of sugar in his blood upon waking but also knowing from trial and error the near-diabetic sensation will die down in time. It only makes him feel worse if immediately fed. His metabolism's pretty crazy.

Then it'll be a shower and back to the ye olde job hunt.

Which is not to say Central has been bad to him – quite the opposite.

Within a week of putting down the deposit for his apartment he started looking for a bit-job to keep himself going.

Retail seemed the natural for a young man his age with no previous job experience – forgoing the alternative option of the food service. Sniffing everyone else's meals all day would have been the worst form of torture.

He got a little interest from a local pharmacy and superstore before being weeded out of their recruitment process by the psychometric testing, which seemed designed in essence to punish anyone who treated the customers like human beings. Then, while substantially more desperate to make ends meet – he managed to score himself a sweet deal as a life drawing model.

It was a little weird standing around all day and trying to keep it down while hotties drew his wang, but the money was great.

After just two sessions some 'talent' scout – cos, yeah he's really talented; got like 8 inches of talent at least, teheehee – picked him up for modelling the hottest new cheap knock off men's underwear sensation: Kalvin Clein.

They got sued out of business shortly after, but it wasn't too bad. They paid well for the short time he was with them and rumour had it they where going to ditch him anyway if he didn't start eating less. Plus, he now got some great shots of his ass to charm the ladies with online as a last resort.

At a moderate pace he's finished his run by ten past seven, favouring distance over speed with the rare luxury of extra time. His muscles and sweat glands remain stubbornly unimpressed, hardly bothering to note any extra exertion on his part. He swears it's like his body has a mind of it's own sometimes.

He showers; jacks it and makes a wholesome and nutritious breakfast out of microwave meals. Anything that takes longer to cook than it does to eat just inst worth fooling with – and for him nothing takes very long to eat.

He's not even sure if he can cook.

Memories and learned behaviours seem subconscious at best and can't be prompted at will. He wishes his brain had it's own google search function. He learnt the hard way this is not so; staring at his kitchen counter-top for a whole 15 minutes in an attempt to make himself an omelette before reluctantly admitting he wasn't going to magically remember how, or Green Lantern one into existence through shear force of will.

Upon having such a thought he spent the next 7 minutes researching what a Green Lantern even was and how it was applicable to his situation. To his profound sadness it too proved inedible... without straying into the realms of cannibalism.

He's not totally against it, but he wasn't quite that hungry yet.

He polishes of a second microwavable roast beef and mash potato monstrosity, slurping the gravy off the flimsy black plastic tray it's packaged with and listening to the thunderous sound of footsteps scrambling down and then back up the apartment's staircase. A few overly loud feminine mutterings of 'shit' and 'fuck' resound outside and the erratic jingling of keys comes from the corridor beyond his flat.

He pokes his head outside, spying Mrs. Jackson stressed out and fumbling while attempting to get her house key back into the adjacent keyhole. She has apparently locked herself out.

"Uh, you okay Mrs. J?"

She leaps at the sudden question, turning about to stare at him flushed pale and wide-eyed with a hand on her heart. "Wally! You made me jump."

"Sorry" He grins sheepishly back, the expression catching as Mrs. J hesitantly returns it in kind.

"Whats the matter?" He asks kindly, stepping out of his flat and setting the door ajar behind him.

She sighs in defeat, air whooshing out of her body to leave behind a tired deflated husk. "God, sounds so cliché. My car wont start."

In a way Wally sympathises with the car. If he where a beat up old Dodge with that much rust he'd probably pack it in too. The things probably been needing a suspension overhaul and new break-disks for the last 10 years.

She scrubs her hands through her mousey brown hair "Shit. If I'm late one more time -"

"- I can take a look at it" He interrupts. He's not really sure why he said that or if it's true but Mrs. J's haggard expression lifts momentarily so maybe its worth it.

"Would you? Your such a lamb. I think Tom's actually got some old tools lying around here somewhere!"

Wally laughs boisterously at the previous statement as she grabs up something from within her flat and leads him out into the parking lot. A lamb. Tch, he'd be more like some incredibly manly wolf or bear or something if he was anything. So he tells himself.

The car's old enough to have a manual locking system, the key slipping into the socket beneath the driver's door handle. Wally slips sideways into the seat as Mrs. J fretfully wrings her hands. It smells like a heady combination of cigarettes and perfume

"You know the worst part is my husbands a fucking mechanic" She laughs dolefully, but theirs no humour in it, only embarrassment.

Wally shoots her a reassuring smile, like he's got nothing better in the world to be doing. Because he really doesn't. The feeling that he should has been nagging at him every waking moment for the last two months.

He turns the key in the ignition, the unfortunate vehicle loosing a hoarse spluttering sound as if begging to be put out of it's misery.

"You gotta double pump the clutch" Mrs.J is muttering from outside the car as he tries a second time, the car managing to sound even more terminally ill than the first try. He's got some vague notion of something that might help, but he suspects it'll only be a temporary fix.

"Can you sit in the driver's seat for me?" He asks, leaping from the car's inside to prop up it's hood.

"Okay."

Inside is like a great winding metal intestine, punctuated with tubes and hosing. The battery sits off centre as a large black cube, and although it's the only thing he knows the name of his hands seem to know exactly where to probe and what to twist to reach their desired goals.

God he hopes sex comes back to him this easily or it's going to create some really uncomfortable situations.

"Try now." He calls back. Mrs J responding with some sort of affirmation before the vehicle awkwardly sputters to life. Her resulting cheer is muffled by the sound of the engine.

"Your a life saver!" She repeats as he closes the hood and whips around to talk to her through the lowered car windows.

"I just patched it; you need to get this thing to a garage as soon as possible!" he bellows back over the sound of the stupendously loud geriatric engine.

"I will right after work! Thanks so much, Wally!"

He flashes her a smile and a thumbs up – saving his voice the effort – before she pulls out of the parking lot, the elderly car's exhaust spewing smoke like an old steam train.

Honestly, he's pretty sure any mechanic will tell her that's a write-off. Even if not for road safety, you could probably suffocate the whole of Beijing with carbon emissions like that.

He shrugs before heading back upstairs to his forth floor apartment. Whatever works, works.

Once more he's proven to be quite handy. The first time he managed to fix the old broken tv the landlord 'generously' donated with the apartment. He was pretty sure that was just a fluke at the time. It's still not 100% functional. The brightness periodically increases and lowers itself as if possessed by ghosts but thankfully he's not very superstitious... apparently.

He turns it on as he trots past it through the living room and back into the kitchen. Best clear up the microwavable meal trays before the toxic brown substance they call gravy melts right through the plastic... and possibly eats straight through the floor beneath him.

Gravy for breakfast. Yep. He's living the good life.

The familiar jingle of 'breaking news' headlines thumps self-importantly from the tv set's tiny speakers, the tune becomes little more than background ambiance to Wally in the next room before something that seems to have become one of his go-to hot words leaks through white noise.

"_Batman -_ "

"Batman!" Abruptly he's zipping into the room at a speed that makes the carpet smoke.

"_'s response to the Joker's threat remains unknown as we head into the 8th hour following the midnight broadcast proclaiming the capture and intended execution of the Boy Wonder. The footage; which we are not allowed to air during daytime viewing hours; unmistakably shows Robin gagged and abused at the hands of Gotham's deadliest criminal. The thought's of all of us here at Picture News are with him. Back to you John_"

"_Thanks Iris, coming up next_ -"

Shit.


End file.
